A Priceless Gift
by ryuzaki-will-live-on
Summary: What will happen when Alfred breaks a present that had been given to Arthur by Francis? better than summary! Currently rated T for language-likely to change to M for M/M relationship. France/England  Human names used. Dedicated to FrUKisLove.
1. Broken

**Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia. **

**Summary: After Alfred accidentally breaks a precious gift that had been given to Arthur by Francis...all hell breaks loose. (There is much more to the summary... but I do not want to give away anything that I have planned for upcoming chapters.) **

**A/N: This is my first Hetalia fanfiction... so I hope you like it. The chapter is short... which is an oddity in my writing, but I'm trying something newer. I'm hoping if the chapters aren't 2000+ words, I'll be able to update sooner... in comparison to my other stories that are currently in progress. ^_^**

"Broken"

"Get the hell off of my ship, Alfred." Arthur was straight-faced, looking at the idiot before him with nothing less than contempt. The American did not obey, and continued to handle the miscellaneous, but memorable oddities in the English captain's cabin.

"Dude! Check this out! Hey, Arthur, how in the world do they get the ship inside the bottle? It's way too big to fit in there." A look of confused awe passed over his features. "You didn't use any of your creepy occult magic to get it in the bottle, did you?"

The older man rolled his eyes. "No, you twit, I did not. Now—hey! Put it down—you can't shake it like that; you'll bre—" He stopped as the delicate bottle slipped out of Alfred's fingers, landing in a shattered mess at his feet. Glass and broken wood pieces from the miniature ship lay desolately in scattered heaps. The shock of the impact silenced Arthur, his rage unable to express itself in neither words, nor actions

This was the precise reason he loathed the insolent American standing before him. The ape was accustomed to intruding upon everyone's affairs and using their possessions as toys. Perhaps that might have been okay when he was just a boy—when he was still cute and not an annoying fat-ass. Now, however, propriety had to be considered. Alfred was _not_ a child anymore; he had to _think_ before he ruined everything.

Surprisingly, Alfred did not butcher the moment further by speaking, which _almost _produced a tingle of thankfulness from the older man. If the English man was not so wholly enveloped with seething ire, he would have questioned what had produced a force large enough to silence Alfred; however, no such thought could be spared.

The ship that was enclosed in that bottle… it had been a gift. It was not a mere trinket used for collecting dust, nor a toy for the self-proclaimed American hero. It was a gift—a memory—a promise. That bottle contained a history that was more treasured than any past military success. It had been given to the sea captain by _him._

Arthur took a shaky breath, as the thought of_ him_ pushed its way to the forefront of his mind. His voice quivered as he forced himself to speak—to command. "Get." Another shaky breath. "Out." The sea captain felt his eyelids connect violently with his upper cheeks as he silently ordered himself not to lose control—not in front of the American.

Words were vomited from Alfred's mouth as he tried to salvage the situation, "Yo man, you know I didn't mean to…it was an accident! You forgive me, right?"

Each word felt like a silver dagger ripping down his back. He unwillingly forced his eyes open, setting Alfred with a murderous glare that promised every imaginable infliction of pain if he did not obey—_immediately_. Fortunately for himself, the American did not stay more than ten seconds longer. He lowered his eyes, while murmuring a dejected "sorry," and slipped silently out the door.

The instant Arthur found himself alone, he shrank into himself, allowing himself a moment of uncommon weakness. He would not cry. The captain drew himself to the floor, staring at the shattered memory before him. He would _not_ cry. Timidly, he captured the top half of the miniature ship's figurehead between his fingers, holding it delicately, as if fearful to destroy it further. _He would not bloody fucking cry_. He had pride as a gentleman: he would _not _succumb to the feminine urge to show such pitiful emotion.

Arthur caressed the broken segment with his fingers once more. _What will I tell him when we see each other next? His gift… his promise…it is destroyed. _

A cord snapped within the English captain as he abruptly rose and disregarded the littered memories displayed on the floor. Arthur made his way to the cabinet in the north corner of his quarters. With a violence he had not used in many months, Arthur threw the cabinet doors open, reaching for the hard liquor they concealed. He took a hearty gulp from the bottle, tipping his head back to gain as much leverage over his drink as he could. _What will he think?_

Arthur made his way to his desk, lavishing in another swig before dropping heavily into

his chair. He glanced once more at the destroyed bottle and the ship it once contained, and then indulged himself in several more mouthfuls of liquor. _What will he say? How will he respond? Now that his gift has been destroyed, his promise has been destroyed, and with it, my own._

"Oh fuck it all," Arthur concluded, a single tear threatening his visage. The captain continued his drinking well into the early hours of the next morning, choosing not to end when the first bottle became dry, but to retrieve another to finish off as well. The hours progressed, and Arthur grew weary and more desolate; his blood-shot eyes quivered as he drifted further and further toward a welcomed unconsciousness. As the sea captain finally replaced one comfort for another, he was left with a final wretched reflection. _I'm sorry, Francis._

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading _A Priceless Gift_-I promise it will pick up from here. I really hope you enjoyed reading this first chapter; it was certainly fun to write. Please review~~I'd love to hear your opinions on it; keep in mind that if I don't update for a long time, the more reviews I get, the more I feel like a dirtbag for not updating quickly enough...which then prompts me to update sooner. ^_^**

**Much Love~~ **


	2. Sleep Deprived

**Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia. **

**A/N: This chapter is on the short side as well, but my plan to keep the chapters shorter so I can update quicker is proving a success... so the structure of _A Priceless Gift _will probably continue in this manner. On that note, I hope you enjoy chapter two! **

"Sleep Deprived"

When the morning's wretched sunlight interrupted Arthur's dark quarters, he was unwillingly hauled from his drunken slumber. _Fucking sunlight_. Arthur buried his head in the crook of his arm, where it lay heavily on his desk. He urged his body to go back to sleep; he did _not_ want to wake up. He was going to have one hell of a hangover that he didn't particularly want to deal with.

Unfortunately for the sea captain, fate had other plans for him. A loud, eager knock at the door gave way to a voice that was too-cheery for this early in the morning. "Captain Kirkland, breakfast is ready, if you'd like to come down to the galley."

Arthur scowled into his desk even though he knew his first mate could not see his reaction. "Captain?" the voice sounded again.

Observing that ignoring his subordinate would not sufficiently rid him of his presence, Arthur grunted a disinterested curt reply. "No, William, I won't come down; start without me." It was silent outside for a moment, and Arthur sighed in relief at the prospect of going back to sleep.

"Captain, are you sure you wouldn't like someone to bring you up a serving? It isn't good for your health to skip meals. Perhaps—"

Arthur's eye twitched in angry frustration. He was the captain; _nobody_ was going to tell him what to do or how to run _his_ ship. "I said," Arthur barked, jumping up from his chair, "I don't bloody want breakfast. You are dismissed!" The captain swayed momentarily as he attempted to gain his balance. Thanks to his little outburst, his head killed as the room spun unsteadily. _Fucking headache._

Arthur moved to sit back down when the insolent voice of his first mate traveled through the door once more. "Captain, sir," he hesitated, concerned for his captain, but fearful of his temper. "Sir, might I inquire…?" It was unlike Captain Kirkland to skip meals, with the exception of instances in which his crew suffered from great hunger. Only when each member of his crew was short on food and at risk of illness did Captain Kirkland refuse to eat a single morsel—offering his men as much of the limited nourishment that was available. "…why…"

Though his actions afforded great respect and devotion from his men, his actions also brought deep concern. It was in these moments when Captain Kirkland grew most anxious and restless—not weak, for he was never perceived to be vulnerable before his men—but certainly uneasy with the situation. His men did not like to admit it to their captain, in fear that he would call _them_ fragile, but they worried for his stability. Captain Kirkland took many responsibilities upon his own shoulders—too many for a single man to handle without assistance.

As first mate on the _Wicked Thorn_, William Hannigan felt a personal responsibility to endeavor to lesson Captain Kirkland's stress as much as possible. "I mean to say, Captain, that I believe it would be prudent of you to—"

_Enough of this_. Arthur stumbled toward the door, accidentally crushing the already broken figurehead—the piece he had held so tenderly the evening before—further into oblivion with his boot. "Damn it all to hell!" he cursed aloud.

"Sir?"

Arthur drew his eyes away from the completely obliterated figurehead and stomped irritably toward the door, eager to terminate the current situation so he may drift back into his own indulged ignorance.

The captain forced the door open with a single fluid, violent motion, startling the concerned first mate opposite the threshold. Despite his inner vexation, Arthur strived to repress a large fraction of his hostility from invading his voice. Through clenched teeth, Captain Kirkland gave his ultimatum. "William, I believe I told you that you were dismissed! I do _not _want to go down to breakfast, nor do I wish it brought up for me! Now, leave me in peace." When his first mate made no motion toward departing, Arthur added on a chilling "_Immediately_."

William shot a doubtful glance toward Captain Kirkland, but bowed respectfully. "Yes, Captain. Understood." Arthur's first mate departed cautiously, leaving the sea captain to his desired silent solitude.

Arthur closed his door with a little more force than necessary_. Finally! How hard is it to fucking follow orders!All I want is to go back to sleep in the quiet seclusion of my own cabin; is that too much to bloody ask for?_

With a sigh of defeat, Arthur glanced once more at the broken mess from the previous evening. Deciding that the task of cleaning the broken glass from the floor was too much for his headache to endure, Arthur stumbled to his thin mattress in the southern corner of his quarters. _Finally, I can retreat under the covers until this bloody headache subsides._

Arthur pulled the thick quilt that he had brought with him on his journey close around his neck as his eyelids drooped heavily against his flushed cheeks. He would worry about Alfred's mess later. He would harden his countenance once again, later. He would block out thoughts of _him _later. Each was a dreaded, but significant task that would have to be completed soon. However, for now, he desperately needed to sleep off his current plague.

**A/N: Again, I'd like to thank everyone who has taken time to read this story. I apologize for these first couple of chapters being relatively uneventful, but it is imparitive to the rest of the story that I set the scene well. I promise that the story will pick up shortly, so I hope you will stick around to see what will happen next. Thank you so much to everyone who has favorited/alerted/reviewed this story! You mean the world to me! xo Please feel free to leave your comments! I always like hearing what others think of my writing! Until the next chapter~~ much love.**


	3. Letting Go

**Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia.**

**A/N: I apologize for the delayed update; this past week has been unceasingly crazy. Thankfully, I managed to steal a handful of minutes to update. With that, I hope you enjoy chapter three of _A Priceless Gift_. **

**Dedication: This story is now officially dedicated to FrUKisLove. After a recent car accident took one of my fellow student's lives, and put another in the hospital with critical injuries... I had hit a sort of slump in writing this; nothing made me want to continue writing it. However~~your review inspired me to keep working on it. _A Priceless Gift _is now dedicated to you, for returning my passion of writing this story to me. I truly hope you enjoy it. Thank you.**

"Letting Go"

Arthur's headache had subsided when he awoke several hours later, but had not completely disappeared. The subtle motion of the room as he rose from his mattress left the sea captain with a string of sailor's curses. _There is a reason I swore I'd never drink again… Fucking headache. Blasted Alfred and his damned mess. This is all his fault. _With a steadying breath, Arthur regained his sea legs; living on these waters over the years had trained him well in the art of recovering from hangover dizziness.

The moment he had regained his balance, he closed his eyes and forced several deep breaths from his lungs. The broken glass from the bottle could not remain on his floor forever. Not only would the thought of it likely drive him crazy, but he'd probably step on a glass shard and have to waste time he didn't have in the surgeon's quarters, ensuring that his foot was not infected. _No. This mess must be cleaned up and disposed of. Immediately. _

With a sigh of exasperation, Arthur moved with heavy steps toward the broken ship and bottle. He knelt beside it, cautious to avoid kneeling in the shattered glass. Looking at the mess, it was harder to carry out his plans to clear his floor of the litter. Arthur shook his head, ridding his mind of the image of_ him_. _I can do this_. With a last determined sigh of irritation, he set to his work.

It took Arthur nearly an hour to completely clean up the mess. He could not simply sweep up the pieces and throw them away; the task was more complex than that. Arthur had to emotionally detach himself from each individual shard as he disposed of it. He had to be sure that when the bottle was no longer shattered on his floor, he would no longer remember what it originally stood for. Arthur had to be sure that the memories meant _nothing_ to him when he was finished disposing of the broken glass.

The sea captain knew that repressing memories was not always the best solution; however, he felt there was nothing else to do in this situation. If he could forget what the ship had stood for, forget that it ever existed, forget _him_… Arthur would be okay. Anything less would be unbearable.

When Arthur had placed all of the broken pieces in an old box, he found that he could not bring himself to lay them to a watery grave on the open sea as he had originally intended. Despite his mind chastising him for his weakness, Arthur deposited the box at the bottom of a chest in the far corner of his quarters. Perhaps he could get away with not obliterating the shattered ship…perhaps if he merely hid them in the dark, smothered them with blankets and other useless junk he would never use…perhaps he could forget they were truly there, just as he intended to disregard the memories attached to the broken pieces.

Arthur shut the spacious chest, took a step back, and then signed in relief. _There. It is done_. A pain swelled momentarily in his heart, but the captain quickly reinforced his mental and emotional barrier, thus blocking images of _him. I will get over this—over him. The pain will dull; I will not allow myself to fall victim to it._

Arthur took one last deep breath before turning from the chest to make himself presentable for his crew. He changed into a fresh shirt and trousers, tugging his boots back on with a sense of urgency. When his clothes were set in place, Arthur hardened his features. He no longer needed to check the mirror to know that he looked like a fearless leader, affected and influenced by nothing. Arthur knew the face he wore was one of a merciless pirate: strong, firm, and proud. This was the face of Captain Kirkland, and Arthur had mastered it long ago.

With a curt nod, the captain turned on his heel and abandoned his cabin for the main deck. He would think no more of the previous night: it would make him weak. His men needed him—needed him strong and fierce as he had always been before them. He would stand before his crew—the crew of the famed _Wicked Thorn_—as he always had: an undefeatable man, capable of taking down the world. It would be as if nothing had ever happened to unsettle the status quo. Today was just another day at sea: nothing more, nothing less.

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed chapter three. It took me awhile to finish... but I'm fairly content with how it turned out. Thank you once again to everyone who has read, subscribed, favorited, and reviewed this story. Thank you for staying with me this far for this story. I know that not much has happened yet... again... I apologize! However, I promise that in... a couple of chapters, I will be introducing Francis further into the plot. I encourage everyone to review and let me know what you think~~ xo**


	4. Resilient

**Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia. **

**A/N: Yes. I admit that I deserve to be publicly flogged. I must appologize tenfold for the delay in posting this chapter... I had a couple paragraphs written for the longest time, and then I developed a sort of writer's block in which I knew what I wanted to say... just not how to express it. Then, I had to rewrite half of the chapter several times because I simply was not happy with it. Then I had midterm exams... which yeah. Not a good combination. So yes, I am extremely sorry for the delay. However, I took special care to make this chapter longer in retribution. With that said, I hope you enjoy it. This is the final 'setting-the-stage' chapter. Things will pick up from here. I promise. Enjoy. xo**

**FrUKisLove: My most sincere appologies! I hope you find the wait to be worth it. =)**

"Resilient"

When most of the men had joined the crew of the _Wicked Thorn,_ Arthur's behavior had come as a surprise to them. The crew had expected a brash sea captain—a natural cut-throat. It was an expectation that had intimidated and thrilled them at the same time. To work under such a fearless leader was an honor each crew member longed for. Eagerly, they embraced the chance to serve the great English sea captain. Therefore, it came as a shock to them when they finally met the esteemed Captain Kirkland.

When the crew first boarded the _Wicked Thorn_, Arthur walked before them, taking in the men who would serve him. From his eyes, he had gathered a worthy crew. He had been extremely fastidious while making the selection for his crew, simply because he could afford to. He was Arthur Kirkland, the most esteemed sea captain in all of England; he could be particular when it came to who would help run his ship. Looking at his crew, he could detect a fire—a passion—in their eyes. The assorted-colored orbs held power—strength—but in controlled magnitudes. These men would be loyal, courageous, and unyielding—as any crew of seamen _should_ be. However, these men would also be thoughtful, and not reckless. It was the perfect assortment of men for a ship's crew—for Captain Arthur Kirkland's crew.

At the very moment Arthur was inspecting his men, the men were scrutinizing their new captain. Physically, he failed to uphold their expectations. Captain Kirkland was not a tall man in possession of bulky muscles; in fact, he was shorter and leaner than most of his fellow Englishmen. Their eyes did not perceive a single scar on his flesh to commemorate a bravely-fought battle. There was no physical trait that confirmed that Arthur would be the captain his reputation held him to. At this thought, the new crew of the _Wicked Thorn _deflated momentarily: the zeal for serving the esteemed Captain Kirkland dimming slightly.

However, it was in the few moments _after_ they silently questioned what they had gotten themselves into that they truly started to respect their new captain for the first time. After the initial disappointment in Arthur's physical expectation, the men were able to view their captain as an ordinary man and not a god-like figure who was supposed to be so much higher than themselves. With that ability, the men were able to judge him as an Englishman, and in _that_ degree, he did not fail.

The men noticed how Arthur stood proud and erect, with his head held high. Though his actions did not make him tall, his posture ascertained strength and determination within the man. The crew saw in his eyes a sense of justice—an unbiased fairness—in which he made all of his judgments. Though small in stature, the new crew could tell that Captain Arthur Kirkland was a good man. As that agreement was reached among the men, it was not difficult for them to pledge their loyalty to their new captain.

Arthur recalled this monumental moment with an inward sigh as he stood upon the bow of his ship, surveying his crew's movements. It was in that first meeting when his men had been issued a promise for their new leader. He had sworn to be strong, courageous, fair-minded, and honest to his men—all without the articulation of a single word. As an English gentleman, he always held true to a pledged vow.

Arthur Kirkland had always prided himself on the fact that he never failed to put his entire self into the task he set out to accomplish. It was a policy that he held himself to: to always give his absolute best. Arthur did not do this for fame or recognition, but because it was just how a gentleman like himself should behave. Anything less was for the weak and savage.

His current task, as the captain of the _Wicked Thorn_, was to be the leader that his men expected and deserved. The _incident _could not and would not affect that pledge at all. Thus, he had thrown himself into the façade that nothing out of the ordinary had taken place nearly three months ago when Alfred was suddenly banned from stepping foot on his ship again.

To his men, Arthur displayed nothing but the well-known stoic face of their captain. From the moment he stepped out of his cabin the day after the_ incident_, his countenance masked his inner turmoil. As the days passed, Captain Kirkland had begun to master his indifference to the situation. It was feigned from the start, but Arthur slowly progressed to the point where he could think about that day and the memories it had shattered—with only slight feelings of loss and sorrow at the recollection.

Upon reaching that milestone, Arthur ceased his reliance on the liquor cabinet in his quarters. It took a fortnight before he was able to wean himself down to a shot or two a night, depending on the particular evening's haunting memories. Though he was ashamed to admit he had succumbed to his old habits after the _incident_, he was quite proud to acknowledge that he had hid his vice well. Perhaps his thespian skills had improved? Not a soul on his ship even suspected he had started drinking again—why would they? He had sworn temperance...long ago. It had been a different time, a different Arthur Kirkland. What was it now? _Another broken promise._

Despite his fall from grace, Arthur felt oddly content. He had put his entire being into erasing the memories of _him._ His nights were no longer entirely sleepless, nor plagued with countless nightmares of _his _reaction. Arthur no longer needed to delude himself with alcohol, for his mind and heart had hardened to keep such _trivial_ memories from reshowing their faces. He had commanded emotional detachment from his soul, and it had made him stronger. The old Arthur—distracted by false hopes of _something more_ to life—was gone; that Captain Kirkland no longer existed. _He_ no longer existed either. That time—those memories—were dead. Had they ever meant anything more to Arthur, they no longer did. _He_ meant nothing.

Arthur pulled himself from his inner thoughts with a curt nod. He watched from the bow as his men prepared to bring the _Wicked Thorn_ into port. Their travels had been long and tedious; it sent a warm fulfillment through Arthur's core to see the English coast again—home. He took in the sight of England's glory with a final inspection of the shoreline before turning on his heal to assist his crew. Arthur's eagerness to dock was matched by each of his men, and the captain would not prolong their reunion longer than necessary.

With a slight smirk—the closest Arthur had come to a smile over the past three months—Captain set fervently to his work. At this rate, the _Wicked Thorn_ would be in port by sunset; tonight would be a night of celebration.

**A/N: I hope it was worth the wait. I think this is the chapter I've had to work the hardest on for this story thus far. I just couldn't get it right. Anyway~~Much thanks and love goes out to all of the reviewers and subscribers of this story. I can't begin to explain how much I appriciate the time you take from your schedule to read my work. Thank you! With that, I encourage everyone to post a review and let me know what you think. I will try extremely hard to get the next chapter posted sooner~I'm hoping that since the story is going to start picking up, I will be more inspired to write it. =) Until next time, xo. -Rhea**


	5. Miscalculations

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

"Miscalculations"

Upon entering the English port, Arthur did not hesitate to turn his restless crew loose upon the town. "Gentlemen, I'd say you've each earned yourself a free round at the pub!" There was a hearty cheer amongst the crew members, which brought a subtle chuckle to Arthur's lips. "Now get off my ship! Tell Mrs. Price to put your evening on my tab, and I'll be around later this evening to take care of the bill."

At his command, the crew of the _Wicked Thorn_ hastily made their way to shore, eager to get a good pint of ale in their hands. Within fifteen minutes, all of Arthur's crew had vacated the deck per his order, except his first mate, William Hannigan, who lingered momentarily. "Captain, sir, are you coming onshore? I can watch the ship if you would like to regain your land-legs."

Arthur almost smiled at the sincerity of his first mate. "That's quite all right, William. I have some maps I'd like to look over before I begin to make my rounds. You shouldn't have to hang around the ship when you could be reuniting with your wife and children, or having a round at Mrs. Price's place. Go on, I'll follow in a couple of hours."

William appeared to take his plan at face-value, accepting it with a slight nod. "Yes sir, thank you, Captain. Just…try not to work too hard; you deserve a break too, Captain." With those words, William Hannigan followed his crew-mates onshore to reacquaint himself with home.

A sigh of relief escaped Arthur when he _finally_ found himself to be alone. He took a moment to lean over the railing, taking in the sight of England—home. Without a second thought, he dropped the façade he had been enforcing for the past several months. There was no point portraying strength in the face of England; _she_ would not be fooled as his crew had been. As the mask of indifference fell from his features, he closed his eyes, embracing the comfort of the beautiful isle as the sun set on the horizon. _Here_ he would no longer have to feel weak; he _would_ be stronger. Arthur felt as if the presence of England would heal the wounds he had tried forgetting; she would mend the anguished memories he had adamantly told himself no longer existed.

With his first smile since before the _incident_, Arthur turned from the English shore and retreated silently to his cabin. It wasn't that he _didn't_ want to rush onshore and reunite with friends over a pint of ale; Arthur simply felt that his crew deserved the first taste of home, and not himself. He didn't want his men to hold a single thought of obligation toward their captain tonight; they deserved a night of complete freedom from their ties of the sea. As their captain, Arthur was determined to give his men that gift. It was because of that determination that he forced himself to sit at his desk and review the maps he discussed with William. Several hours flew by before Arthur had even realized it; he had been entirely consumed with planning their next journey, even if it would not commence for at least a month.

As the time neared midnight, Arthur pushed his maps aside, sinking low in his chair to stretch his stiff limbs. Looking around his cabin, he noticed the not-quite-empty liquor bottle sitting on the table as the pale moonlight caught the glass through the porthole. _One drink will not do any harm…after all, tonight is a night of celebration. I am home._ Arthur deliberated the alcohol for only a moment longer before he rose from his place behind his desk and made his way toward the liquor bottle.

With practiced motions, he poured a generous amount of the liquid into a glass at sitting near the bottle. Arthur moved to the porthole where he could see the English shoreline in the soft moonlight. _To England, and moving forward—to strength. _"Cheers," he toasted with a dignified smirk. Arthur brought the glass to his lips, the liquor passing smoothly through down his throat.

"If you are going to take up your glass in a toast, _mon cher_, you should have at least asked me to join the celebration."

Arthur's eyes went wide at the intruding, yet all-too-familiar voice. _No. He's not here. He __**can't**__ be here._ The sea captain did not trust himself to turn around; instead, he stood frozen with his brandy in hand.

"I must admit I am a little surprised. You have returned to your precious _Angleterre_, and what do you do? Sit in your stuffy cabin and mope." The velvety voice chuckled before continuing, "Of course, you _have_ always been quite pouty, Arthur. You are lucky that you are cute, _mon cher_, because nobody likes an ever-present rain cloud." The voice chuckled once more as he quit his teasing. "I have missed you; welcome home."

Arthur heard the solid click of boots on the wooden floor moments before he registered that his jaw had indeed dropped open into an undignified gape. _No. He can't be here… _Arthur's thoughts stopped as he felt gentle hands trace his hips, turning him ever-so-slowly around to face the source of _his _voice. Unwilling to accept that _he_ was here, Arthur closed his eyes, using every scrap of force he possessed to keep them secured.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" The voice scoffed lightly, moving his right hand to brush lightly against the sea captain's cheek. "_Regardez-moi._ Look at me." He placed a chaste kiss against Arthur's motionless lips. "_Mon cher_, what is it?"

Unable to find the strength to enforce his resolve to ignore the presence of the man before him, Arthur opened his eyes apprehensively. As his emerald eyes locked with the sapphire gems before him, the forgotten glass he had been holding slipped from his fingers, colliding deafeningly with the wooden floor.

The shattering glass—an all-too-familiar sound—pierced Arthur's ears. He had heard that sound thousands of times in the past months, replaying in his mind. Glancing down, he took in the sight of the shattered glass. Silently, he allowed himself to slide down, kneeling once again before broken glass on his cabin floor. A sharp shard dug cruelly into his shin, and he felt warm tears pool at the corners of his eyes. Weakness consumed him; Arthur fell forward, his hands digging into even more glass and beginning to burn as the assembling brandy infiltrated the fresh wounds. "Shit." It was not the broken whisky glass he was seeing before his eyes, but rather the ship in the glass bottle that had shattered only months before. "Shit."

Upon viewing the scene with uncontainable worry, the man standing above Arthur did not hesitate to drop to his knees before the seemingly broken captain, ignoring the pain of the jagged glass that littered the floor. He took Arthur's face in his hands, trying to get a clear view of his dampening brilliant eyes. "Arthur, _mon amour_, do not cry. I am here." He drew Arthur into his arms, attempting to smooth his unruly hair as a display of comfort.

It was several moments before the situation settled in Arthur's mind; however, when it did, he simply broke. Everything that he had been working to forget over the past months was kneeling before him, trying to comfort him—undeserving as he was. Unable to even think anymore, Arthur abandoned the entirety of his pride as an Englishman and turned his tear-brimmed eyes up toward _him_. When he spoke, his voice was sparse and dejected. "F-Franc-cis." The sea captain let the familiar name fall from his quivering lips before turning his head into the Frenchman's chest, clutching his cloak tighter in his hands, and forsaking all attempts at holding back his tears.

Francis did not know what to think of the weeping Englishman in his arms. He did not know what had happened to make Arthur upset. Although Arthur disliked the Frenchman's teasing comments—especially when he was irritated—the Englishman generally had cute, snappy retorts ready to fire back. This time, however, he had done nothing. _Something_ had to be deeply affecting his blonde captain…but what could have _broken_ him so violently? Francis placed a kiss to the blonde tuft of hair tucked securely against his chest. "Hush now, _mon amour_, I am here."

**A/N: Yay! I was _finally_ able to introduce Francis. I love writing his character; he's so much fun. Anyway~~I hope you liked this next chapter-hopefully enough to review, since I didn't get a single review for the last chapter. To everyone who has reviewed or subscribed to this story, thank you! xo**


	6. Confessions

**Disclaimer: I regret to inform you that I own NOTHING in Hetalia Axis Powers. **

**A/N: I am eternally sorry! I had no intentions of it taking this long to update...but before I knew it, I had college finals...and now I have my senior final exams in two weeks. That's not even counting the constant pile of calc, writing my graduation speech, planning my graduation party... everything. I whole-heartedly apologize for the inconvenience! That being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I had to re-write certain parts SEVERAL times because I wanted to make sure I didn't make the characters too OC-ish. I think I accomplished that(?) If you could review and let me know if I succeeded, I would greatly appriciate it! Enjoy~~**

"Confessions"

Francis held Arthur for a solid ten minutes before the sea captain calmed his breathing enough to speak. He stroked the sun-bleached blond hair softly as he whispered soft reassuring idioms in French to sooth Arthur's anxious nerves. The Englishman's actions worried Francis, but he was determined not to let it show. Although Arthur always portrayed unfaltering strength, the Frenchman knew that even he had his breaking points. He had only seen Arthur like this once before, and that was after Alfred had left England to gain his independence in America. Arthur had been absolutely broken after the separation, but Francis had been there to help pick up the pieces—to help the Englishman move forward.

"_Mon cher_," Francis tested guardedly. He did not want to push Arthur into talking if he wasn't ready; however, he was starting to get extremely concerned over the sea captain's behavior. It was not often that Arthur cried—especially in front of Francis. As cute as he was—clutching to the Frenchman and trying to calm his jagged breathing—Francis did not like to see the other man in pain, despite popular belief.

In response to the Frenchman's words, Arthur turned his head up in acknowledgement as he tried to calm himself down. Although Francis did not enjoy the tears still brightening Arthur's eyes, he was happy to have a reaction from the blonde other than relentless crying. As far as he was concerned, they were making progress. "Arthur," he tested again. Moments later, when the addressed man took a deep breath and nodded, Francis knew that he had been given his cue. The Frenchman placed a faithful kiss against the sea captain's forehead before drawing him close once more for a quick hug. "Will you tell me what has troubled you, _mon cher_? Please? I can't make it better if you won't let me." Francis waited as he observed the quick flash of emotion that crossed Arthur's mien—so brief that most people would have missed it. One had to be well trained in the expressions of Arthur Kirkland to catch the flickers of emotions such as fear and guilt—for they were not often displayed.

Indecision danced in the emerald green eyes that were focused on the Frenchman. There were several minutes of anticipating silence before Arthur closed his eyes and let a deep sigh escape his throat. _I can't hide from him forever… he'll find out eventually. It's now or never… _The sea captain took one last deep breath to calm his lingering nerves before opening his mouth to speak. _Where to start? _"You can't."

Francis was confused, to say the least. His lips tugged downward into a perplexed frown, "What do you mean, I can't? What can't I do?"

"You said…" Arthur closed his eyes, forcing the tears that threatened his eyes not to expose themselves. "You said that you could fix it…but you can't. Nobody can."

"_Mon amore_, what have I told you about underestimating my ability. Give me more credit!" Francis paused for a second before tagging on, "I am French; I can do anything," in hopes of provoking a smile, or at _least_ an eye roll from his blonde.

It worked…kind of. Arthur let out a choked laugh-sob-_thing_ before turning his eyes back to Francis, in a desperate attempt to make him understand. "Francis, you don't get it. Not even you can fix this… I've ruined everything." At this statement, memories of shattered glass and broken wooden frames cluttered the Englishman's vision. Tears once again could not be held back as the strength that Arthur had worked to install slipped again. "…everything." The sea captain's face fell once more in an attempt to veil the shame and torment that were sure to be reflected. _He won't even want to fix it once he finds out why I'm a pitiful, disgusting, crying mess._

Once again, Francis caught the flash of emotion rush across his face. Instead of allowing him the chance to avoid speaking, Francis took Arthur's chin delicately, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Arthur, _mon cher_, do not tell me what I can and cannot fix—especially when they are injuries of the heart. Those are the types of wounds I am best at repairing." The seriousness in the Frenchman's voice startled Arthur momentarily, but it did help still his frantic breathing. Francis brought his forehead forward to meet Arthur's, "Now, tell me why you are crying. Let me take care of you—like I promised."

Immediately, Arthur's eyes widened. "That promise is gone, Francis! That's the problem!" he exploded. "You owe me nothing—I deserve nothing! As much as I hate it, nothing can go back to how it was before!"

Confusion clouded Francis' demeanor as he cocked an eyebrow. "_Excusez-moi_?" A frown settled upon his lips, "I made no such declaration. My promise still stands, whether you like it or not, _mon cher_."

"Francis, you don't understand!" Arthur began, "Alfred—"

The Frenchman felt a growl build in his throat. Of course that idiot would be the cause of whatever dilemma was distressing his Englishman. "Arthur. What did that incompetent, witless pig do to upset you this time?"

The look in Francis' eyes startled Arthur momentarily. Everything about that gaze screamed seething ire. _Vengeful. Protective. Possessive._ It was enough to make Arthur stumble over his next words. "Fra-Francis… don't…"

The Frenchman's eyes narrowed. "What. Did. He. Do?" When Arthur only looked hesitant, Francis pursued his demand. "I'm serious. If that arrogant, gluttonous imp took liberties..." Francis' teeth ground together harshly, "I'll…"

The Englishman felt a rush of heat surge through him. _Francis looks so sexy when he is being protective. _His cheeks flushed radiantly at the thought of Francis defending him. _He actually cares… _Guilt immediately annihilated the previous thoughts of affection. _The truth is going to kill him... I hate myself for it, but I have to tell him. He deserves it... he deserves so much better. _With his eyes still downcast, Arthur shook his head.

"No?" Francis questioned. "No, what, _mon amour_?"

Arthur lifted his eyes sullenly, "He took no liberties."

Relief seemed to flood the Frenchman's features. "Then what has he done?"

Arthur sat silently for several seconds before he pulled himself to his feet and trailed over to the far side of his cabin, kneeling before the old sea chest before him. Francis watched with curious eyes as the Englishman sifted through the trunk's contents before pulling out a worn box. Arthur then returned to his original position and pushed the mysterious box toward the Frenchman. The silence of the entire sequence unnerved Francis, but he took the box with steady hands.

Before unveiling its contents, Francis glanced once more at his seaman, only to discover downcast eyes. _So broken… _Tentatively, he removed the lid to expose a shattered mess that he did not initially recognize. _Shattered glass? Broken wood? What is the significance—oh. _Francis took the severed figurehead delicately between his fingers.

"Your replica of _La Fleur_? He broke this?" Francis asked with inquisitiveness.

Arthur's eyes seemed to dim even more, if that were possible. "I… I tried to stop him, Francis. I did, but…" He took a breath to settle his nerves, "…I failed." Francis prepared to deny his statement, but was cut off by a rush of Arthur's words. "I'm really sorry. I know you have to hate me for this… but I don't think you can hate me more than I do myself. I let this happen—I destroyed your gift—your promise. I'm really, really sorry, Francis."

The Frenchman took in the image of the visibly distressed seaman before him. "_Mon amour_, you owe me no apology." _No response. _"Do not blame yourself; Alfred was the one who broke it, _oui_? Blame the American idiot, not yourself! You know that he is a force to be reckoned with; it was only a matter of time before he broke something of importance." _A scoff._" Arthur, it is only a replica. If you are so upset, I will have another created for you; as soon as I return to France, I'll—" _A response._

Arthur's eyes displayed every variation of appalled agony. "Francis, it can't just be replaced!"

"Of course it can; I'll contact my—"

"You're missing the point! This ship—this _exact_ replica is _special_. There are memories attached to it—_promises_. You can't just replace those!" His shoulders visibly heaved, jagged with uneven breathing.

Francis subconsciously frowned. "Arthur, your replica may be broken, but those memories will always be there—my promise to you us permanently intact. _Always_."

A slight pout formed on the Englishman's lips, "But… Francis…"

Francis pulled Arthur to him, wrapping the seaman in his arms. "Shh, _mon amour_, I will have another replica of _La Fleur _crafted for you. You cannot get rid of me that easily." The Frenchman captured Arthur's chin between his thumb and forefinger, searching his eyes for what he knew was present. Doubt.

Francis drew closer, savoring the feel of Arthur's breath against his lips. He placed a chaste kiss against his lover's lips and felt the shiver that ran through the Englishman's core. Ever so gently, he allowed his lips to caress the beautiful pout that graced Arthur's features. _I will wait, mon amour. For you, I would wait a lifetime. _As Francis had hoped, the Englishman tentatively lowered his defenses and moved his lips against the soft ministrations. Their kiss—the first one in over fourteen months— leisurely grew deeper. There was no tongue; there were only two pairs of lips moving together—working to reconnect the spirits that had been separated for far too long. When Francis found himself in need of air, he withdrew his lips, allowing them to hover mere millimeters from his Englishman's. Through parted lips, he whispered, "_Je t'aime. Plus que vous ne pouvez l'imaginer. Je t'aime, Arthur_."

Arthur did not understand the entirety of what had come out of Francis' mouth, but he did not care. He closed the distance between them once more, nuzzling his head into the Frenchman's chest. _I don't know if he is right…if everything will be alright, like he promises. But I do know that right here, in his arms… I feel safe. For the first time in a long time… I feel whole._

**Translation: "_Je t'aime. Plus que vous ne pouvez l'imaginer. Je t'aime, Arthur_." - I love you. More than you can possibly imagine. I love you, Arthur. **I do not speak French, so I apologize if there are any errors in the grammar. You may blame Google Translate. ^_^**

**A/N: Thank you again for reading! Again, my apologies for the delayed update-especially to FrUKisLove, who has been a constant source of support in the making of this story. Thank you to all reviewers and everyone who has continued to follow "A Priceless Gift." You are my inspiration. Until next time~**


End file.
